In the spring of 1887 I sailed for Europe to spend the summer in study
with Hans von Bülow, and on the steamer I met Andrew Carnegie and his
young wife Louise. They were on their wedding trip and on their way to
Scotland, where Mr. Carnegie had rented “Kilgraston,” a lovely old place
near Perth. He had known my father and had invited him a few years
before to a dinner given in honor of Matthew Arnold who had been in
America on a lecture tour. Mr. Carnegie spoke of my father with great
affection and respect, and expressed his delight that I had taken up my
father’s work. He invited me to come for a visit to Scotland after my
studies with von Bülow were over.
In the late summer, I accordingly sailed in a small steamer from Hamburg
to Leith and was received with great friendliness by Mr. and Mrs.
Carnegie at Kilgraston. Among their guests were James G. Blaine, his
wife, and two of their daughters. My acquaintance with this remarkable
family soon ripened very fortunately for me into close friendship and
resulted finally in my marriage to Margaret, one of the daughters—but I
am progressing too fast.
Mr. Blaine had been defeated for the presidency in 1884. Since that time
he had been occupied in completing his book “Twenty Years of Congress,”
and in the spring of 1887 he and his family were taking a year’s holiday
abroad.
Because of my youth and the exigencies of my profession, most of my life
had been spent among musicians and those interested in music. This was
the first time that I came into personal relations with a great
statesman, at that time the foremost in our country, and I found to my
amazement that, although an atmosphere of great dignity surrounded him,
he was absolutely simple and gentle in his contact with other people.
His wife, a woman of singular strength of character, with a highly
original mind and an absolute devotion to her husband and his ambitions,
was in many ways as remarkable as he. Her knowledge of and interest in
literature—poetry, history, memoirs—was very comprehensive, and the
discussions thereon, which were constant at Mr. Carnegie’s table,
interested me immensely and opened new worlds to me.
The two daughters, Margaret and Harriet, high-spirited and sharing the
interests of their parents, gave them a devotion and love so partisan
and intense in its character that it seemed at first to attract me
toward them almost more than anything else. As a boy I had suffered
agonies at seeing my father misunderstood and often attacked by men not
worthy to tie his shoe-strings, and here I found similar conditions but
on a much greater scale, as Mr. Blaine’s career had been national and
his triumphs and defeats had enlisted the sympathies or execrations of
millions of American citizens. Music had entered but little into the
lives of the Blaine family—although since then my wife has become
enthusiastically devoted to it—and I was really delighted that for the
first time in my life I was compelled to establish relations from a
purely human standpoint and without the assistance of any of the
“romantic glamour” of my profession. At this time, however, I got but a
glimpse of the Blaines, as they stayed only a week after my arrival, but
there were delightful rumors of a four-weeks coaching trip from London
to Scotland which Mr. Carnegie was planning for the following summer and
for which we were all to be invited.
Mr. Carnegie was at that time a generous supporter of Gladstone and the
Liberal Party, and several of its leaders came to Kilgraston to visit
him, among them John Morley, who impressed me immensely and for whom at
his own and the Carnegies’ request, I played excerpts every evening from
Wagner’s “Nibelungen Trilogy,” explaining the music and the text, as Mr.
Morley had never heard the music before. I was very proud of being able
to interest so fine a mind as his in Wagner’s music, and like to think
that my Wagner lecture recitals, which in later years I gave all over
America, had their origin in these informal talks in Scotland for Morley
and the Carnegies.
Incidentally, Mr. Carnegie became more and more interested in the New
York Symphony and Oratorio Societies and consented to become their
president and chief financial supporter. The more intricate symphonic
works did not appeal to him, but he had a natural and naïve love for
music. Because of his study and intimate knowledge of Scotch literature,
poetry especially, together with an intense affection for the country of
his birth, he particularly loved the folk-songs of Scotland, and in a
high, quavering, and somewhat uncertain voice could sing literally
dozens of them from memory. To me these folk-songs were a revelation,
and I still think that they have a variety and charm beyond those of any
other race.
I even adore the Scotch bagpipes and am almost in sympathy with the
Scotsman who says that his idea of heaven is “twenty bagpipers a’
playin’ t’gither in a sma’ room and each one playing a different tune.”
On our long walks and fishing excursions together, Mr. Carnegie talked
continuously and freely regarding his many plans to better the world
through liberal benefactions. He had already begun the founding of free
libraries all over Great Britain and America, and would often tell me of
his own great poverty as a child and the difficulty of obtaining the
books and education which he craved. His imagination would kindle at the
opportunities which his libraries would give the youth of to-day, and a
constant optimism as to the future of the world seemed to direct all his
plans.
The poor salaries paid to our teaching profession would especially
arouse his ire, as he considered that the entire future of America lay
in the hands of its teachers and that, therefore, the greatest minds of
the country should be enlisted in the work and suitably rewarded. As the
reader knows, this conviction finally culminated in his remarkable and
comprehensive scheme of pensions to college professors who had served
their calling a certain number of years.
As he would unfold to me his various dreams and plans, he became really
eloquent. His little hands would clinch, and for a moment even his
fishing-pole and a possible trout at the other end would be forgotten,
especially when he talked of his greatest aversion—war—and of its
hideous uselessness in settling any disputes.
As a boy he had had hardly any school education, but he had inherited
the Scotch passion for books. He had read omnivorously and, what is
better still, remembered what he read. Burns and Shakespeare he knew by
heart and could quote very aptly to clinch a point in his arguments.
His sympathy for suffering, especially that caused by poverty, was very
great and expended itself in practical help in every direction. The hard
struggles of his early youth had made him very understanding, and many
widows left destitute received immediate help from him and the children
were put through school and placed in business through his assistance.
His attitude toward religion was very curious. In those days he
professed to be an agnostic, but he had old Scotch prejudices in favor
of a “Scotch Sunday.” He despised theology and yet was really religious,
but he did not care to define his God or to explore the mysteries or
possibilities of a future life. His prejudices were as unyielding as the
pig iron which he manufactured at his Homestead works, and no argument
would move him if his mind was made up.
While Mr. Carnegie had a real admiration for music in its simpler forms,
this never crystallized into as great a conviction regarding its
importance in life as that which he had regarding the importance of
science or literature, and though always generous in its support, his
benefactions never became as great as in other directions. He could
understand that a library, a school, or a hospital could not and should
not be self-supporting, but I could not convince him that music should
fall into the same category. He always insisted that the greatest
patronage of music should come from a paying public rather than from
private endowment. He built Carnegie Hall in order to give New York a
proper home for its musical activities, but he did not look upon this as
a philanthropy, and expected to have the hall support itself and give a
fair return upon the capital invested.
In the spring of 1888 I again sailed for Europe with the Carnegies, and
on arriving at the Metropole Hotel in London we found the rest of the
coaching party already assembled—the Blaine family, Mr. Henry Phipps a
partner of Mr. Carnegie’s, and Mrs. Phipps, Gail Hamilton (Miss Dodge),
a cousin of Mrs. Blaine’s well known as a writer; also a young
Universalist clergyman, Doctor Charles Eaton, who was the pastor of Mrs.
Carnegie’s church.
We left the Hotel Metropole June 8, in the morning, on top of Mr.
Carnegie’s four-in-hand. There was a great crowd of people to see us off
and wish us “Bon voyage,” among them John Morley and Lord Rosebery. All
the men of our party looked very sporty in high gray top-hats which we
had hurriedly acquired at a hatter’s in the neighborhood that morning.
I had been appointed treasurer of the tour by Mr. Carnegie, “with no
salary but all the usual perquisites,” as he put it.
The coachman, a stout, good-natured Scotsman of real ability, drove his
four-in-hand with such skill and care that when we arrived in
Invernesshire four weeks later, his horses were in even better condition
than when we started.
It was certainly an ideal way to travel, and the pace was leisurely
enough for us to see and enjoy the exquisite countryside of England and
Scotland. Every night we stopped at a different inn but always carried
our lunch in hampers, and at noontime halted at some picturesque nook by
the bank of a river or on some grassy meadow in the shade of the trees
and enjoyed our meal in lazy fashion.
The discussions between Mr. Blaine and Mr. Carnegie at these picnic
luncheons were certainly fascinating to listen to, and especially
illuminating to an American musician whose horizon had perhaps been
bounded too exclusively by his own ambitions and the problems of his own
art. Mr. Blaine knew England, its history, and its great families far
more intimately than any Englishman I have ever met. It is well known
that he never forgot anything, and whenever we stopped either for
luncheon or at an inn for the night, he would immediately proceed to add
to his immense store of knowledge by questioning the local farmers,
field workers, or innkeepers regarding the economic or political
conditions of that part of the country.
An amusing opera-bouffe element of the entire coaching trip was added by
the constant but furtive appearance and disappearance of four American
newspaper reporters who had been sent by their respective papers to
“shadow” Mr. Blaine because the Republican convention for the
presidential nomination was about to be held in Chicago, and it was
eagerly hoped that Mr. Blaine would accept the nomination again. He, and
through him we, of course, knew that nothing was further from his mind,
but in the dusk of evening, when we would arrive at our inn for the
night, these four reporters, having travelled by train, would already be
there and try directly or indirectly to obtain “inside information”
regarding Mr. Blaine’s intentions. The reporters included Stephen Bonsal
for the _New York World_ and Arthur Brisbane for the _New York Sun_. The
latter, wishing to combine pleasure with business, would sometimes scorn
the train and hire a high dog-cart.
Our itinerary took in all the cathedral towns of the east coast of
England. We were bound by no time-tables and, therefore, had every
opportunity to see and study the mighty Gothic churches of Cambridge,
Ely, Peterborough, York, and Durham.
I had agreed to conduct a concert in London on the 19th of June, and so
very reluctantly said a temporary good-by to our party at York. This
concert was given by Ovide Musin, an eminent young Belgian violinist,
who wished to perform a concerto of my father’s which he had played in
New York about eight years before under my father’s own direction. I had
an excellent London orchestra of seventy-five players and also gave
Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony and the Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody Number
One. It was my first experience as a conductor in England, and as the
concert passed off very well I was much elated, especially when, just
before catching my train for Durham to rejoin the coaching party, I read
some complimentary criticisms of the concert in the _London Times_ and
_Telegraph_.
It was raining when I left the railroad station in Durham to walk to the
road along which Mr. Carnegie’s coach was to appear. I well remember my
thrill of joy when I heard a merry fanfare played on the coaching horn
by one of the footmen—whom, by the way, I always envied for his
virtuosity on this instrument—and shortly after, at a turn of the road,
I saw the coach appear with everybody on top attired in gray rain-coats
and waving a friendly welcome. My wife has always insisted to my
children that on this entire trip I wore a double-breasted frock coat
which had done previous duty at my matinée concerts in America, but I
think this is a gross slander and not based on fact.
We crossed the border into Scotland and of course stopped at Walter
Scott’s home and also visited the ruins of Linlithgow Castle, in which
Mary Queen of Scots was born. And here the four reporters, who had been
as constant as leeches and as inevitable as death and the taxgatherer,
solemnly entered the ruins and gave Mr. Blaine a telegram which they had
just received announcing Benjamin Harrison’s nomination at the
convention. As Mr. Blaine had expected this for weeks, the news did not
excite him greatly. He bade a friendly good-by to the four young
sleuth-hounds, several of whom have since achieved fame in their
profession, and we continued our journey farther north until we arrived
at Mr. Carnegie’s home, Cluny Castle, on the evening of July 3.
It was bitter cold and the wind was whistling shrilly over the Dalwhinny
Moors as we first caught sight of Cluny, but an American flag was
floating proudly over its turrets, and inside warm fires and a delicious
dinner were awaiting us.
Then began a summer of delights for me. Mr. Carnegie had a piper who,
according to old Scotch custom, would walk around the outer walls of the
house every morning to awaken us. My room was in the bachelor quarters
and had a little fireplace in which a peat fire smouldered comfortably.
The smell of peat and the sound of the piper as he drew nearer and
nearer to my window and then again receded in the distance are always
inseparably associated in my memory. In the mornings I usually worked at
my studies in counterpoint and composition, but from luncheon on it was
nothing but delightful entertainment or listening with keenest interest
to discussions of all kinds—political, economic, poetical. Miss Dodge
was a most stimulating person. She had a mind that would accept nothing
without analysis or proof, and the verbal duels between her and Mr.
Carnegie were fascinating, for, although she was not Scotch, she, as
much as Mr. Carnegie, typified the story of the two Scotsmen who meet
each other and one says: “Where are you going, Donald?” “Oh, just doon
to the village to contradict a wee.”
Occasionally I would accompany Mr. Carnegie to some lonely loch among
the hills to fish for trout, but I have never developed into a very
ardent disciple of Izaak Walton. I used to get more pleasure from lying
on my back watching the marvellous Scotch sky with its low-hanging
clouds framing the hills in their loving embrace, with perhaps now and
then just a speck of blue shining through, than from the catching of the
“finny monsters.” These, however, rarely measured over six inches in
length, although I certainly enjoyed them the following morning, when we
had them for breakfast, rolled in oatmeal flour and deliciously fried.
In the evenings I had to contribute my little quota toward the
house-party by playing Beethoven and Wagner on an excellent Broadwood
piano.
During all this time I was amazed at the extreme simplicity and
gentleness which characterized Mr. Blaine’s demeanor toward all with
whom he came in contact. Here was a man who at that time was the most
loved and the most execrated American, and yet he had in him absolutely
nothing of the “prima donna” manner of many of those in my profession
who have achieved fame. His dignity, however, was innate and
unconscious, and during the many years that I knew him and knew him
intimately I have never seen any one who dared to presume on his
simplicity and general cordiality of manner by undue familiarity. His
power of abstraction from his surroundings was remarkable. He enjoyed
working in the room in which his family were talking, laughing, and
disputing on all manner of subjects, while he would sit in a corner
concentrated on some problem of his own and work it out, absolutely
oblivious to what was going on about him.
The Blaine family left Cluny all too soon, and not only I, but the
entire household felt their absence keenly.
Other guests followed, among them John Morley, with whom I went on long
and to me very interesting walks. He seemed a very lonely and perhaps a
disappointed man. He was married, but childless, and told me once that
the great regret of his life was that he had no son, as he would like to
have brought him up and educated him according to a theory all his own
as to what an Englishman’s training really should be. How many men have
had such dreams and how few, if any, can really control the future of
their children!
In March, 1889, Benjamin Harrison was inaugurated President and Mr.
Blaine became his secretary of state.
I was, as usual, terribly busy that winter with the opera, concerts, and
Wagner lecture recitals, and there were times when Washington seemed
very far away, but Margaret Blaine had good friends in New York whom she
visited occasionally, also a sister, the wife of Colonel Coppinger of
the United States army, who was stationed at Governor’s Island in New
York harbor. Whenever she stayed with Mrs. Coppinger I was a very
frequent passenger on the little ferry-boat which seemed to me
maintained by our beneficent War Department for the sole purpose of
enabling young men like myself to reach this picturesque though
antiquated military fortress.
Mr. Carnegie was absolutely unconscious of my aspirations regarding
Margaret Blaine, and the following summer he suggested a visit to Bar
Harbor, where Mr. Blaine had built a summer home. I accepted with an
alacrity which he mistook as springing only from the same source as his
own desire to see again the friends who had contributed so much toward
the delights of the coaching trip and Cluny Castle. When I afterward
told him of my hopes and that they had received some encouragement
during our Bar Harbor visit, he was very much put out and vowed that if
he had ever suspected anything of the kind he would never have taken me
with him. He told me that he had hoped I would not think of marriage for
many years, but would remain as a kind of semi-attached musical member
of his household, which at that time consisted only of himself and his
wife. Of course I listened to his many arguments absolutely unconvinced,
and obstinate though he always was, he found his equal in me. I must
confess, however, that when he saw how much in earnest I was, he not
only completely receded from his position, but accepted my engagement
and marriage with absolute good humor and approval.
My engagement to Margaret Blaine was announced in October of the
following year at the wedding of her brother, Emmons, to Anita
McCormick, of Chicago.
Mr. Blaine had bought the old Seward mansion on Lafayette Square, very
near the White House, and Mrs. Blaine, who had a remarkable flair for
harmonious house furnishings and decorations, proceeded to make it into
a dignified and charming house, the special feature of which was a large
drawing-room on the first floor, created by changing two rooms into one.
I have told elsewhere how in those days I was compelled, because of my
youth, to confine myself at the Metropolitan to the conducting of such
operas as “Le Prophète,” “La Juive,” and “Trovatore.” Seidl, my older
colleague, completely monopolized the Wagner operas, which I was of
course particularly anxious to conduct. Against “Trovatore” I had at
that time a particularly strong and unreasonable aversion, although it
was partly justified in that we did not have a cast in our German Opera
Company that could do justice to its Italian atmosphere or its vocal
demands.
Whenever good luck would have it that the Saturday matinée was a Wagner
opera, I would ask for and obtain from Director Stanton the permission
to leave for Washington on Friday night, as this would enable me to
spend Saturday and Sunday with my fiancée. On one of these Fridays, just
after I had received my permission, my brother Frank came to me and
urged me to take the first train to Washington that I could catch, as he
had just heard that the tenor who was to sing in “Siegfried” on Saturday
afternoon was ill, and that in all probability the opera would be
changed to “Trovatore.” I quickly took the hint, and when the message
came that I was to conduct “Trovatore,” I was nowhere to be found and
Anton Seidl was compelled to conduct it. He was furious, as he had no
greater love for it than I, and my brother told me afterward that he
conducted the entire opera with a black scowl on his face, which was
bent low over the score and from which he never lifted his eyes once to
give a sign to singer or orchestra.
During the following winter, tragedies began to overwhelm the Blaine
family. Walker, the eldest son, a young man of great talent who had
inherited much of his father’s personal charm and who had become a great
help to Mr. Blaine in the State Department, died, to be followed shortly
after by the oldest daughter, Mrs. Coppinger.
These two tragedies, following so closely upon each other, were the
first break in that perfect family circle, and this affected Mr.
Blaine’s spirit and health to such an extent that I do not think his
vitality ever recovered from it.
I was married to Margaret Blaine on May 17, 1890. I should like to write
much more than a chapter about the thirty-two wonderful years of our
married life, but as my wife has sternly forbidden me to even mention
her name in these memoirs, this chapter must close with the best left
unsaid, though the most deeply felt.
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